


Stories We Tell

by little_librarian



Series: Wander Into My Heart [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, M/M, Podfic Available, Pre-Relationship, Reconciliation, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_librarian/pseuds/little_librarian
Summary: Jaskier deserves to know that he's sorry, it’s just that Geralt doesn't know how to say it. Vulnerability of any sort gets him killed; it takes time to unlearn something so deeply ingrained, even with Jaskier chipping away at him. He can’t use words the way Jaskier does, eloquent and enticing and full of meaning, but actions have always been Geralt’s specialty.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Wander Into My Heart [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607377
Comments: 64
Kudos: 3670
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Stories We Tell

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely linked to my other fic, [If Not Destiny](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21963733), but can also stand alone. Let's be honest, there was no way I was letting these idiots go more than a day without making up.

The dwarfs are alive with excitement when Geralt returns to the camp. They rush about, packing up their things and chattering loudly about what they’ll do with the coin they’ll get for the dragon teeth. Jaskier has inserted himself into the midst of it all, as usual, but he seems untouched by the joy. The dwarfs indulge him with a spirited retelling of the trip, but Jaskier does not engage in their banter. He does not look up as he writes, doesn’t add his own comments. He takes silently what they offer him. If he notices that Geralt has returned, he doesn’t show it.

“I see your sorceress left,” Yarpen Zigrin says, coming up on Geralt’s left.

“Hm.” Geralt isn’t in the mood for small talk.

Undeterred, Zigrin continues, “Your bard stayed.”

It’s not the first time someone has called Jaskier his. Jaskier never seems to mind being so completely linked to Geralt, and Geralt’s resigned himself to accepting it with a grunt—no one ever believes him when he objects. It is, however, the first time the possessive words have felt so heavy.

“He just doesn’t want to go back alone,” Geralt says.

Zigrin shakes his head. “Take the long way down and there’s a trail to a tavern. My men offered to take him there—for a fee, of course. He said he’d rather wait for you.”

The weight in Geralt’s gut settles heavier. Of course Jaskier waited. He’s better than Geralt deserves. It’ll take more than harsh words and raised voices to drive him off, and Geralt resolves to never find his breaking point.

Geralt walks away without a word. Whether Zigrin takes offense or not, he doesn’t care. It takes only minutes to pack up his meager belongings, and then he makes his way to the rock where Jaskier is perched, lute stored in the case at his feet. He’d brought nothing but his journal and his lute on the journey; if not for Yennefer’s presence, he surely would have wheedled his way into Geralt’s tent.

“The dwarfs tell you about the tavern?” Geralt asks.

“They did, yeah,” Jaskier says. It’s strange to hear such short sentences from him, and Geralt knows it's his fault. Jaskier looks at Geralt for barely a second before his gaze skitters off to the side.

“Let’s go.” Geralt starts walking without waiting for a response. Jaskier’s footsteps behind him are answer enough.

***

Geralt stops walking when they reach a fork in the path: left to the tavern, straight to the horizon. Jaskier, with his eyes trained on the ground, continues straight. He’s been walking with his head down, even though the ground flattened out hours ago. Not watching his footing, then, but avoiding looking at Geralt. Walking like that leaves him far too vulnerable; Geralt’s sure that Jaskier knows this. Geralt’s also sure that he’ll put himself between Jaskier and anyone who tries to attack. This, too, Jaskier must know. Even when he doesn't trust Geralt with his words, he trusts him with his life.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. It’s the first word spoken since they set out. He doesn’t mind silence, but it feels empty and wrong when Jaskier controls it. “Wrong way.”

Finally, Jaskier looks up. “Oh. Right.” He shuffles back towards the inn, only to stop right in front of Geralt. He takes a deep breath, shakes himself a bit, and says, “I’ll take _some_ responsibility for what happened in Cintra.” 

“Jaskier—”

Jaskier snaps a hand out and up, like he intends to cover Geralt’s mouth, but stops short and pulls his arm back to his side. Jaskier is rare, someone who will touch Geralt freely and absently. He touches Geralt because he can, not because he wants something, and Geralt hates this newfound hesitation. The act is unprecedented and likely uncomfortable, but Geralt would have let Jaskier smash a hand to his mouth.

“I invited you to the feast,” Jaskier continues. “I interfered with that _wretched_ djinn. But you made your choices, too, Geralt, and I won’t be blamed for your foolish consequences.”

Jaskier is full of nerves, like he’s afraid Geralt will yell at him again. He shifts his weight from foot to foot; he flutters his arms at his sides, then crosses them over his chest, then rests his hands on his hips. He looks at everything except Geralt.

Geralt lets him fidget for a few seconds. “You’re right,” he says, and Jaskier is, at last, startled into eye contact. Geralt can hear Jaskier’s breath catch, but neither of them looks away.

“Right, yeah, course I am,” says Jaskier, bobbing his head in fast, staccato nods. When Geralt doesn’t respond, he squints and says, “Does that mean you’re sorry?”

“Don’t push it,” Geralt growls, but Jaskier’s already fighting a smile.

He is sorry, though. Jaskier deserves to know that, it’s just that Geralt doesn't know how to say it. Vulnerability of any sort gets him killed; it takes time to unlearn something so deeply ingrained, even with Jaskier chipping away at him. He can’t use words the way Jaskier does, eloquent and enticing and full of meaning, but actions have always been Geralt’s specialty.

“You never got my part of the story.”

“ _You_ weren’t in much of a mood to give it. I planned to put something together with what the dwarfs gave me, but you were there for more of the heroics, after all…” It’s almost flirtatious, the way Jaskier looks at Geralt as he trails off.

“A drink,” Geralt says. “Then my story is yours.” He puts a hand on Jaskier’s back, urges him towards the tavern when something occurs to him. “Foolish consequences?”

Jaskier leans over and knocks their shoulders together, and Geralt allows the momentum to tip him a bit sideways, as Jaskier had intended.

“You invoked the Law of Surprise as a _joke_ , Geralt, _honestly_.”

***

They start at a table and end in a room. Jaskier paces the short length from wall to wall, strumming his lute and piecing together a song that’s more Geralt’s story than the dwarfs’. Geralt lies on the bed and pretends that he’s trying to sleep, when he’s really listening, intrigued, to Jaskier’s process. Eventually, Jaskier slides onto the bed with him and drops a pile of furs over them both. Geralt remembers the last time they had slept close together, when the fire was dying and the soil had lost the sun’s heat, and Jaskier couldn’t stop shivering.

“It’s not cold,” Geralt says.

Jaskier hums. “Good point,” he says, then tosses one of the furs to the ground. His gaze is stubborn and challenging and just a bit smug when he looks back at Geralt, but his smile is sweet and hopeful. This is the Jaskier that Geralt knows best.

Geralt could shove Jaskier out of the bed. He could get up and leave the tavern. He could have ripped the djinn’s bottle from Jaskier’s hands rather than fighting over it, could have walked away when Jaskier invited him to that feast. Somehow it’s become a habit to make the choice that keeps Jaskier close.

“Fine,” says Geralt.

Jaskier grins ever wider and is wholly unperturbed when Geralt frowns back. The frown is mostly for show, anyway, and it vanishes before Jaskier’s smile.

Geralt wakes up in the middle of the night, uncomfortably hot, and throws another fur off the bed. Jaskier is plastered to his side, but he’d far rather remove a blanket than the bard.

**Author's Note:**

> Really though, can we talk about the sleeping arrangements in Rare Species? Jaskier only carried his lute, Geralt only brought one tent and didn't bunk with Yen until the second night. What about on the first night???


End file.
